


The Ghost of You

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Genji Shimada, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Body Horror, Daddy Kink, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Power Imbalance, Spanking, since Reyes is Genji's commander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10838439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Genji comes to terms with his life in Blackwatch.





	The Ghost of You

**Author's Note:**

> A comm for tumblr user purely-a-trashcan! <3 Thanks for your support.

White.

It’s the first thing Genji sees when he opens his eyes. For a moment, it’s his whole world. Clean. Empty, filled with endless possibilities and impossible, beautiful ignorance.

A crack. Clicks and beeps. It shatters. Tubes, IVs, wiring. Metal. When the world slips into focus, Genji _remembers_.

He tries to shift, to panic, scream, _anything_ , but he’s half-formed, an almost body of alloy and cables, faded ozone and antiseptic and pain. A soft voice echoes around him, and the machines and lights double in his vision, sickly green, before he succumbs to

Black.

-

He learns, in subsequent periods of awareness, where he is. Overwatch. It means little to him, kept dumb and soft by the drugs pumping through his new, manufactured veins.

Only twenty percent of him is human anymore. The rest is machine. The rest is sorrow. Anger.

A young doctor with bright blue eyes and a permanently drawn face watches over him. She speaks softly, but does not coddle him. She tells him about Overwatch, her work, her work on _him_ , his recovery process. What he can expect for life _after_.

Genji scoffs, and the sound is thick, robotic. Abhorrent.

Vaguely, he remembers agreeing to this while he bled out on the floor of Shimada castle, while they dragged him through fire and rubble, faceless men shrouded in black. Ninja, he thought, delirious, hurting. Dying. He would’ve said yes to anything, if only to see his brother again. To see him and _slay_ him.

When he tells Dr. Ziegler his wish, she frowns, face aging beyond her years. She is kind, tries to shake his resolve.

But Genji will not be moved.

 _I want to strike fear into the heart of the Shimada_. He tells Dr. Ziegler, before he knows her first name. _Let them look upon me and see what I have become, a demon, to exact my revenge. Then I will help you._

She bites her lip, and even in worry she is beautiful. In another life, he would’ve told her so. Now, he looks down the line of his body, its metal and carnage, and tries not to scream, clings to the only thing that brings him cold, furious comfort.

-

A man with dark eyes and a dark smile sits in the chair next to his bed. His name is Gabriel Reyes.

“Genji Shimada. You’ve got grit.” He says, glancing over Genji’s case file rather than studying the garish, angry lines crisscrossing his once handsome face or following the loose cables sprouting from his neck. “Heard you had a request for our good doctor. Want to take down that crime empire of yours.”

Genji bristles, metal clips and joints clenching together in alien sections, stomach soured and tight.

“It is not my empire. It never was.” His hand flexes against the sheets.

Reyes continues without an ounce of hesitation. “You’re all alone now, but you don’t have to be. Look, people here, they come from all over. Some of ‘em have kin, some don’t, but they sacrifice to make our world safer, even if it’s not for the purest of reasons.”

“What do you want?” Genji growls. He has had a lifetime of lectures, and he is _tired_ of it.

“I know you don’t trust me. Hell, if I went through what you did, I wouldn’t trust me either.” He shifts forward. “I want to give you the chance to get back at the people who wronged you, but I need to know it won’t get in the way of Blackwatch, won’t get our guys killed.”

Reyes meets his eyes for the first time, leveling that intense gaze at him.

“Blackwatch is family, one that you can be a part of, if you want it. I’ll clear your augment requests, and you can still join Jackie on the front lines, if you want. Trust is slow, it’s earned. A chance, is all I’m asking.”

A choice. One he wasn’t given in his old life. Bend or break.

“I will consider it.” Genji says after several blips of his heart monitor.

“Thank you.” Reyes says, slaps a large, gloved hand on the flesh of his remaining shoulder. The warm, dry roughness bleeds into his skin.

He rolls the sensation over in his mind hours later while he lies in bed, sleepless, staring at the white ceiling.

-

He’s given a bunk next to a cowboy when Dr. Ziegler clears him for duty.

“Name’s Jesse McCree,” the cowboy says, looking as if he stepped out of a century old movie. McCree surprises him: a quick talker with a quicker sense of humor. In his old life, he would’ve brought McCree around to show off to his friends, an anomaly, a western relic from days past.

Jesse introduces him to a few of the recruits, though Genji cannot recall their names. A despondent fog obscures his waking hours; only sound bites, snapshots, sharpen into focus. McCree’s laughter, like dark glass. Reyes smoking after a mission, the faintest taste of tobacco filtering through his mask. The man’s bicep, flexing around his neck when Reyes pins him, gravel rough voice telling him to give up, to _yield_ , with a hint of gruff amusement.

-

Reyes confronts Genji a few months later, casting him in shadow. The dark is a cold comfort. It conceals. Grants protection. That shadow had saved him in the field many times, when blood consumed his vision and cast the world in red.

Genji has learned since those early days, though the bubbling madness vibrates just beneath what’s left of his skin. Reyes’ orders center him, train him to resist the only thing that makes him feel alive.

He breathes.

“You did well, Shimada.” Reyes says, clapping Genji on his metal shoulder.

Most recruits hesitate to touch him, only McCree and Reyes brave enough. The touch, the soft praise, reminds Genji of when he was small, when things were better.

“I know not everything works the same, but you’re welcome to grab a drink with us.”

Genji worries his synthetic lip beneath the mask. He thinks of his old friends a lifetime ago. Flashy, flighty, but so was he. His chest _aches_ at the thought.

“I would like that.”

“Great. We leave after debrief.” The fingers at his shoulder squeeze for an instant, then the pressure, Reyes’ shadow, is gone.

-

McCree drinks loudly and well. The strike team sits at a small table in the corner of a run down bar, tinny honkytonk blaring through antique speakers. McCree and Reyes flank him; the commander drinks a beer while McCree nurses a whisky.

“Glad you decided to come with us,” McCree says, grinning against the lip of his glass. “Been tryna peg what you like to drink.”

Genji had been a wildcard. Spicy. Syrupy. The more extravagant the better. As long as it was strong, he had enjoyed.

“A little bit of everything.” He clutches his drink in his hands: a vodka soda. The carbonation is dull against his tongue, the smooth zip of liquor undetectable.

“Figured you’d like the hard stuff, but you can’t beat a cold beer after a mission like that.” Reyes replies, leaning into Genji to be heard over the din. Without his mask, Reyes’ breath ruffles his hair, and he smells the dry hops of beer on his breath.

“Showin’ yer age, boss. Type of answer a dad with a day job gives.”

“Calling me your daddy, McCree?” Reyes shoots back, the neck of his beer balanced between two fingers.

Genji _freezes_.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?” McCree laughs before whispering conspiratorially against where Genji’s ear used to be.

“Careful, Genji. Cross ‘im once and he’ll have ya over his knee before you can blink.”

Genji takes a hard pull of his drink, an elusive, familiar pulse washing over him. It’s a ghost sensation, only manifesting in whispers when he managed to sleep. He could never stand to touch his body, the feel of alloy and silicone in place of flesh disgusting enough to quell what little desire he felt.

“Hey, you okay?” McCree asks. Genji wishes he had his mask. It’s hard to breathe without it, and it would stop the cowboy from studying his face.

“What’d you say to him, McCree? He’s red as a cherry!” Xie says from across the table, their eyes thinned and mischievous. “Someone finally drunk enough to take a roll in the sheets with you?”

“Didn’t hear you complaining last time.”

Genji breathes, tension draining as the focus swings away from him.

“That’s because I did all the work!” Xie sputters.

“You _like_ doing all the work.”

Reyes laughs along with everyone else, the sound so loud and close he can’t help but to focus on it, a blip, recorded amid the gray. A dark spot.

He doesn’t notice the commander’s eyes following the path of his jaw, watching Genji stew while the others fling their insults and come-hithers, daring each other to take the next spot in McCree’s bed.

-

Genji sleeps that night, buzz and exhaustion tugging consciousness away. He dreams of leather gloved hands caressing his lips, a raspy beard catching against his old body, his true body.

A mouth, hot and insistent, kisses between his thighs, and rich, shadowy laughter echoes around him.

-

Genji blearily fumbles with his modesty panel, swallows a moan as his cock (the strange synthetic substitute that serves as it) slides into his fist.

The dream swirls in front of his eyes: Reyes pinning him, Genji swallowed within his umbra. He closes his eyes and strokes his cock for the first time, releases his mask, clutches his mouth.

_“Well done, Genji.” His hand pumping firm and even. “Good boy.”_

Genji whimpers, and McCree shifts in his sleep, but he can’t stop the quick slide of his hand, keeps bucking into the warm, smooth clutch of his fist, of _Reyes_ ’ fist.

He clenches his jaw, catching his whimpers in his throat as he comes hard, thighs straining, dizzied by its intensity. Genji slips his mask into place, catches his breath slowly, quietly. He brings his hand to his face, inspecting the strange spend. Some sort of lube, he guesses, smears it into his sheets with disgust.

In that moment, the release is enough, and he sleeps peacefully.

-

Genji knew it would come to this. He stares at the ground, fingers laced in front of his visor, elbows planted on his thighs. The plastic seat beneath him groans, his body aches, but he can’t leave, not when…

“Genji.”

He doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Angela, feels her worry from several feet away.

“He’s stable. You should get some rest.” _You should take better care of yourself,_ she doesn’t say, but he reads it in her pause, in the way she lingers.

The tips of her fingers ghost across his shoulder. He meets her eyes. No smile.

“It wasn’t your fault. They knew the risks.”

“You do not know. You weren’t there.” Genji bites back.

Her expression hardens.

“I read the reports. Do not forget that I am a soldier too.” She takes a step back. “Now go, or I’ll call security.”

His chair wobbles as Genji departs, anger and sickening guilt vibrating in his core.

His footsteps clatter in the empty hall. He is tired, always tired, but the anxiety naws without reprieve; he hasn’t slept more than six hours in the past week, hasn’t slept well since that night.

“Shimada.”

A deep voice: pebbles crushed into fresh loam. The telltale shadow. His red eyes reflect into Reyes’, and the man freezes.

“Jesus, kid.” Reyes steps close, and energy spikes between their bodies.

Genji breathes, a shaky hiss exhaled by artificial lungs, filtered through his ventilator. He can’t see beyond Reyes, pinned by the man and his intensity and his darkness. It should be suffocating.

“Come with me.”

-

Reyes is nothing like his father. Sojiro had been a man of two faces. The first: yakuza, bound to tradition and clan. The second: father, who doted on his youngest son with fiendish intensity, a boy whose green eyes shone as brightly as his wife’s. A memory, a living reminder of his fierce, persisting love for a dragon extinguished in a torrent of bullets.

He was a ghost in his father’s eyes. Now, he is not even that. He wishes Reyes could’ve seen him before, when he was still beautiful.

Though now it’s hard to care when he’s balanced over Reyes’ knees, his commander’s rough, careful hands carding down the cables at his neck, cupping against his paneling.

“Ssh, I got you. Just let it out.”

Genji whimpers, synth and vocal cords vibrating with his small noises, each press of Reyes’ exploring hands sparking alien sensation through his systems.

“Relax, Shimada.” Reyes chides, husky, calm in a way Genji hasn’t felt in years. Reyes squeezes right beneath the swell of his ass, and the younger starts, heart jittery, mind racing. “Or,” The man’s voice drops. “Do you need me to make you?”

The first smack is soft, gravity bringing Reyes’ hand against his ass, but Genji keens, thrashes, and Reyes’ grabs his neck, curls his fingers around the base of his cables, holding his head down.

“Don’t move.” Then. “Green?”

“P-please.” Genji whimpers, and when Reyes stops touching him he growls the color back at him. His color, a lifetime ago.

Reyes smacks him again, and if hitting Genji sears his skin or reverberates through his bones, Genji can’t say; he only knows that his commander delivers blow after blow with precision, like he knows exactly how Genji wants it, _needs_ it. How Genji needs control stripped away. How Genji craves discipline and guidance for the first time. Black and white reality from the shadow that leads him through the nightmare fog.

His cock aches, trapped against Reyes’ thick, hard thigh. Reyes smacks him again, grips the swelling mesh skin where his processors read back stimulus, a small blip of damage. Genji grinds into Reyes’ lap, even when the man’s hand clenches around his throat, sensors alerting him to the pressure. Genji twists his face to the side, pressing his cheek into the worn couch. The mask is off. Reyes wanted to see him. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think anything but ‘more’ and ‘good’ and ‘please Reyes Reyes _Reyes_ ’.

Reyes spanks him until the only thing Genji registers is bliss, mindless and white, the first pure point of consciousness between lives before he was destroyed.

He groans when Reyes flips him over, the man catching Genji’s leaking cock in his gloved hand. Reyes drags his thumb across his cheek as he begins stroking him, hard and good, Genji doesn’t even have the energy to fuck into his commander’s hand.

Without barrier and thought, the word slips from his mouth, and embarrassment registers faintly before it sinks into the deluge of overwhelming pleasure.

 _Daddy_.

He stares at Reyes, watches his pupils blow, his face scarred and warm and so affectionate and lust-filled that Genji gasps.

 _Oh_.

Reyes speaks. It feels like a dream, pleasure so white hot and intense he can barely register what the man is saying. Genji begs for it, and Reyes gives him everything.

“Beautiful. I got you. Come for me.”

Genji does, fingers sinking so hard into Reyes’ bicep it must hurt, heels digging into the cushions, spearing through the fabric, his whole world narrowed to the single point of his commander, his hands, his words, his love. His orgasm rocks through his core, offlining his cybernetic functions, his body a twitching mess of human synapses and failing protocols. It pulses in waves, clenching and swelling so hard it hurts but it’s so good and he’s powerless, can only feel, be its conduit.

-

When awareness returns, it is Reyes, still stroking his cheek, holding him close, watching him like he’s everything.

And in that moment, maybe Genji is.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


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